“The doctor and I had been taking cover in a shell-hole,” he explained, between the sweet and the dessert, “when a high-explosive hurled the whole of our shelter on top of us, leaving only our heads free.  We were two heads sticking out of the ground like two turnips.  After about five hours the C.O. sent a runner to find the padre and the M.O., alive or dead.  The fellow traced us to our shell-hole, and when he saw our heads, he actually came to attention and saluted.  ‘The C.O. would like to see you in the Mess, sir,’ said he to me.  ‘And I should dearly like to see him in the Mess,’ said I.  ’However, stand at ease.’  ‘Stand at the devil,’ said the doctor.  ’Go and get spades and dig us out.’”

“Hum,” commented Major Hardy, “if you weren’t a padre, I should believe that story.  But all padre are liars, what.”

Monty bowed acknowledgments.

“And then,” suggested the Major, “you felt the pull of the Dardanelles.”

“Exactly, who could resist it?  I wasn’t going to miss the most romantic fight of all.  The whole world’s off to the Dardanelles.  I knew the East Cheshire’s chaplain was coming home, time expired, so I applied—­”

“How ripping!  That’s our brigade,” interrupted I, unconsciously returning his previous flattery.

“Is that so?” said he.  “Well, let’s go above and get to know one another.”

We went on deck, he, Doe, and I, and watched the new arrivals.  Troop-trains were rolling right up to the quay and disgorging hundreds of men, spruce in their tropical kit of new yellow drill and pith helmets.  Unattached officers arrived singly or in pairs; in carriages or on foot.  Many of them were doctors, who were being drafted to the East in large numbers.  A still greater proportion consisted of young Second Lieutenants, who, like ourselves, were being sent out to replace the terrible losses in subalterns.

“The world looks East this summer,” mused Monty.  Then he turned to me in a sudden, emphatic way that he had when he was going to hold forth.  “But there’s a thrill about it all, my lads.  It means great developments where we’re going to.  Six new divisions are being quietly shipped to the Mediterranean.  You and I are only atoms in a landslide towards Gallipoli.  There’s some secret move to force the gates of the Dardanelles in a month, and enter Constantinople before Christmas.  Big things afoot!  Big things afoot!”

“Jove!  I hope so,” said I, caught by his keenness.

“Just look round,” pursued Monty, switching off in his own style to a new subject, “isn’t our Tommy the most lovable creature in the world?”

I followed his glance, and saw that the decks were littered with recumbent Tommies, who, considering themselves to have embarked, had cast off their equipment and lain down to get cool and rested.